The Bride Wore Black Leather

name.
    I kept up a steady pace, staring straight ahead, not pausing for anyone or anything. Animals can smell fear. And weakness. So I strode right on, giving every indication of being ready to walk right over anything or anyone who didn’t get out of my way fast enough. The other people in the underpass went out of their way to be polite and give me plenty of room; but a shadow of a man with no man to cast it rose suddenly up before me to block my way.
    I smiled, unpleasantly. I’d been waiting for something over-confident or arrogant enough to try it on. I needed to make an example of some poor damned fool, so everyone else could see I was still dangerous, and spread the word that I should be left strictly alone. So when the dark shape rose before me, spreading out its over-long arms to fill the tunnel, I already had a salamander ball in my hand, palmed from an inside pocket when no-one was looking. I triggered the pasty white ball and threw it into the dark, featureless face; and the salamander ball exploded in a fierce vicious light that filled the underpass from end to end. Everyone cried out in pain and shock as the incandescent glare overloaded their eyes temporarily. I, of course, had my eyes squeezed tightly shut, with an arm raised over them, just in case. When the light faded enough for me to see again, the dark shape was gone, blown apart into tiny dark fragments that spiralled on the air like midnight confetti. I walked straight through them, and they swung madly on the air to get out of my way. It’s nice to be respected.
    I have known people to get really snotty about salamander balls, saying they’re expensive, you don’t get much bang for your buck, and they’re a bit on the small side. But as I always point out, you only get two to a salamander.
    I kept walking, not looking back or even glancing about me, and everyone else pressed themselves against the sides of the tunnels. If there were any enemies or bounty hunters down in the underpass with me, none of them bothered me. And when I finally walked up the steps and out into the open night air again, I was only half a dozen blocks down from Blaiston Street.
    I had to stop for a while and lean against a handy shop-window while I got my breath back. (The shop was called Hope, and it was shut. That’s all you need to know about the Nightside, right there.) I looked at my reflection and hardly recognised the gaunt and drawn face that stared back. Blood was streaming thickly from my nose, as though it had been hit, and I could taste the bad coppery stuff in my mouth. I spat hard to clear my mouth, and the crimson stuff ran slowly down the shop-window. I was tired, bone-deep tired, and when I fumbled a handkerchief out of my pocket, I could hardly feel it. My fingertips were dangerously numb. Somehow, I managed to pinch the bridge of my nose till the bleeding stopped, and spat more blood across the window-glass till I ran out. I mopped roughly at my face and stuffed the handkerchief back into my pocket. A slow, hot pain pulsed behind my eyes. I had to sort this case out soon, while I still could. Overusing my gift was causing me serious physical and maybe even neurological damage. I could feel it. And God alone knew what it was doing to my soul. I’d never had to use my gift so often before.
    I finally pushed myself away from the blood-streaked window, straightened my back, and raised my head through an act of sheer will-power, and headed determinedly for Blaiston Street. I was deathly tired, every muscle ached, and I still couldn’t feel my fingertips. And I would have killed for a deep-crust pizza and a whole bunch of drinks to wash it down with. Not really in my best condition to face a threat that could mean the end of the Nightside, forever.
    Some days, you can’t get a break.
    •  •  •
    Didn’t take me long to get to Blaiston Street. A nowhere street in a nowhere place, the really bad end of town. It made the area outside Green Henge wall seem like a petting zoo. I could feel the property values plummeting the closer I got, and the people looked less furtive and more feral. Though none of them did more than watch me carefully from a safe distance. Even down here, they’d heard of me.
    Blaiston Street was a ragged collection of shabby buildings in a shabby setting. Where every single street-light had been smashed because the inhabitants felt more at home in the dark. Filth and garbage piled up everywhere, left to sit in festering